


overwhelmed by this complex delirium

by lazybug



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M, Panic Attacks, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles-centric, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-03
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-07 08:13:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,805
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1891758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazybug/pseuds/lazybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is left to his own devices in the loft while Derek and the rest of the pack take out the monster of the week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	overwhelmed by this complex delirium

**Author's Note:**

> Stiles has a panic attack in full blown detail and there are several death mentions.  
> Please don't read this if it isn't for you or you think you might be triggered.

Perhaps for the first time ever, Scott had convinced Stiles to hang back in Derek’s loft while the pack went to go fight with the newest wreak of havoc in Beacon Hills. Everyone was shocked, except for Stiles. He decided it would be best to stay behind this time. His entire body was still healing (painfully, humanly slow—damn supernatural creatures) from the last showdown. Nobody needed him dead. Not yet anyway.  
  
A couple hours in a place where an uncountable number of fights happened? No problem. It’s not like he could distract himself, either. Derek didn’t have anything worth entertaining himself with regardless. Apparently, Derek seemed to think that only having a bed, food, and various odds and ends qualified as a good living space. In Stiles’ mind, it certainly did not.  
  
It’s not like Stiles is constantly thinking when he’s alone. Or like his best friends could be mauled to death in a few minutes. Or Derek, the only one in the group who actually knows what he's doing half the time.  
  
The pack has been gone for about an hour by now. Already, Stiles is regretting his decision to stay. They could seriously need his help. He's been told that he's a good distraction before. Screw his pain, they were so much more important.  
  
Gradually, Stiles found himself staying by the oversized wall of windows. He sat there for a while, mumbling to himself, shaking his leg, and picking at his nails. God, why didn’t he bring a book or something?  
  
Little by little, the anxiety started to bubble under his skin. He started to pace. Then, he grew tired of walking the same path fifty-some times. He sat on the stool in front of the table, facing the windows, when he couldn’t bear to continue to patrol the expanse of the loft any longer. His actions switched between the two for an hour or two, maybe. Stiles was terrible with time.  
It turned out to be a lot longer than two hours.  
  
The sun was due to rise soon. He could tell by the ounces of light coming from the skyline. It did nothing to sooth his hysteria. Derek said it wouldn’t take all that long. Stiles specifically remembered the words, “Don’t worry. We’ll be back before you know it,” stumbling from his mouth, eyebrows and head nod insisting the truth of the words. And Scott would have called him out on a lie.  
  
Five minutes passed. Actually, Stiles didn’t know how long it really was. Seriously, he was terrible with time. All he did know was that it felt painfully close to forever. He was started to think once more, unable to keep the dread out of his subconsciousness. What if they didn’t come back? What if nobody made it out alive? What if they couldn’t heal from the slashes this thing gave out like gifts? Stiles can’t lose anyone else. He can’t do it.  
  
The pacing started back up around the time the first sliver of sunshine could be seen. Absently, Stiles thought how there very well could be permanent evidence of his repetitive pacing after tonight. It wouldn’t be a surprise.  
  
Sometime along the way, he worried his bottom lip until the metallic taste of blood found its way into his mouth. Hastily, he tried to lick away the small split in his lip. Grossed out by the taste, he held the back of his hand to the cut. The sight of blood when he pulled it away made him sick to his stomach. Even if it was just a smear of crimson, it still managed to make him queasy. He honestly could never get used to the sight of blood, even if he’s around it time and time again.  
  
Blood. Oh. They weren’t back yet. No one was back yet and the sun was rising. Of course they couldn’t possibly be okay right now. There’s no way. They would’ve been back by now if everything went alright. Everyone was without a doubt, dead. Or dying. _Dying._  
  
The thought triggered something. Something Stiles could have gone his entire life without picturing.  
  
But then, more images of carnivorous, jagged teeth ripping through his pack mates attacked his hopeful reasoning. Naturally, they didn’t stop there. Stiles saw Lydia screaming at the top of her lungs, coated in blood, Scott’s face drained of any color or expression, and Allison…he saw Allison with her crossbow falling out of her grip as she fell, and Derek bleeding runny, black liquid from every open gash visible. His face was starting to pale and lose its grimace. The view made Stiles feel even sicker.  
  
Everybody was gone. He couldn't lose all of them. He couldn't lose Derek. He couldn't lose Derek and it hurt to even begin to think that he could be dead.  
  
Stiles didn’t realize he was screaming. He didn’t know when he curled himself up on the floor either. Or when his breath was stolen from his lungs. Or when tears blurred his vision to make it look like the room was spinning.  
  
All he could think was dead, dead, _dead_.  
  
It was all too much. Everything was coming down on him all at once. The roof could fall down on him and he would be too wrapped up in his own hysterics to feel it.

His panic overwrote anything positive left in his system. His world was folding in on him, leaving not even an inch to breathe. It felt like ten thousand pounds were pressing down on his chest, keeping him from doing anything but gasp for air that wasn’t coming in. Stiles couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t do this.

He should’ve gone with them, it didn’t matter how hurt he was. His pack was missing in action, and he wasn’t there to help. He needed to be there to help. He could’ve stopped this. And now they could undoubtedly be dead. They were probably dead.

It was all his fault. If he wouldn’t have taken Scott to look for that dead body all those years ago, none of this would be happening. If he wasn’t so ignorant back then, his best friend wouldn’t be dead or dying right now. His best friend in the entire world could be dead right now because he was a stupid kid, and he couldn’t handle it. The guilt was ripping him to shreds.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Stiles understood this was his anxiety. He knew it was the what if’s making their mark and tearing at the little left of his clear-headedness. He knew, but he could never be able to do anything about it. Not on his own. It was too much. Everything was too much.

And suddenly everything was too loud, the room started shifting faster and faster, his throat ached, his stomach had a huge knot in it, and he couldn’t breathe. God, he couldn’t breathe.

There were heavy booming sounds around him, unsettling and subdued by his heart blowing out his eardrums. Distantly, he heard muffled words, frantic and jarring. He knew his own mouth was running with distraught nonsense still. It had to be. Maybe he was still screaming. Was he still screaming? He was screaming before, right?

“Stiles, it’s okay. Listen, it’s okay, we’re okay, you’re okay. Fuck. You’re okay. Everything is okay. Stiles. I'm okay, I'm here. I'm okay. Please, just—god, I don’t know what I’m doing. It’s okay, alright?” Though the words were suppressed to a point, they were clear enough to be vaguely understood. That, and the repetitiveness of some words helped.

The same voice continued, “Everyone is okay. Everything’s fine. I'm okay. Listen to my voice, okay? Please, concentrate on breathing for a second. Stiles, god, please breathe. Nobody’s hurt. We’re okay. I'm okay.”

Another chimed in somewhere in the mix, “Derek, it’s not working. It’s not working!” Scott. Derek. He knew those voices. He knew those names. Just out of reach, it clicked somewhere in his mind. A cog that stopped working somewhere picked up, deciding to take control of some of his motor functions.

He managed a single, sharp intake of breath. The shaky puff of air that reached his lungs nearly hurt being that it felt foreign. Stiles felt like he was drowning in a void free of air and peace.

“Focus.”

He tried to focus. He tried to focus on anything he could. He tried to concentrate on his breathing, on whoever was talking, on his own racing heartbeat against a more steady one. He tried. But his world was turning to black, coating every thought with death and destruction, and pain.

It always helped him in the past to focus on something consistent to bring himself back from these. After his mom died, his dad was always around to make sure Stiles stayed relatively calm. But when he couldn’t, his dad would rub his back, or rock the two of them back and forth until his son could breathe again. They would lie there for a while because the attacks would last for a good while, fizzling out some odd hours later.

He constantly had to remind himself that his dad was okay. If anything, his dad would be okay after tonight. He had his dad no matter what. That thought settled the knot of unease in his stomach a tiny bit, like a starting point of getting a pair of his headphones untangled.

The thoughts of his dad made the brushes of comfort down his back make more sense. He arched further into that, craving the solace of anyone.

A breath of warm air fell over the top of his head, more words of soothing succor flowing with it. Stiles could breathe for another moment, shaky and uneven but nonetheless, breathing was breathing. Anything was a step up from getting less air than if he were to breathe through a coffee stirrer.

One line of horrid, nightmare-inducing thoughts fell through, leaving more clarity of his own surroundings. He could feel someone’s hand tracing insignificant, consolatory patterns on his back more clearly now. It felt like his whole body was enveloped in comforting warmth, although he felt like he was drenched in gallons of his own sweat.

Soft lips were resting on his temple, moving slowly over that spot—presumably talking. He could feel the pressure of the slight stubble that pricked the skin of his forehead.

“I’m going to try something Lydia told me about, okay? She said it worked before and it’s all I have to go on. You’re going to be okay.” The rubbing of his back stilled and left, along with the sweet presence of lips on his skin. Then, the only thing to focus on was the heat and light pressure of hands resting on his cheeks.

Although he couldn’t see or think entirely straight, he knew what was coming—almost hazily. The thought of it did nothing but bring up more anxious thoughts and ticks. That one time he had a panic attack, it was Lydia who kissed him. Lydia kissed him and it helped. But now it wasn’t her. It wouldn’t be her because she suggested it. And that wasn't as bad as this one was.  
He didn’t need that feeling of hopelessness and craving again. He didn’t need to feel in debt to whoever it was because after this, he surely owed them his life. He didn’t need his breathing stopped and restarted in order to come back from this. Although, in all seriousness, it helped. It calmed him down quickly enough last time. Right?

Stiles hated anxiety. He hated how he needed to depend on others to help calm him down. He hated how his worries choked him. He hated everything about this stuff. All it did was cause trouble and make him seem even more emotionally damaged than he already is. The last thing he needed was the pack thinking he couldn’t handle himself any longer.

What if they never trusted him to be alone again? He’d have to have someone lurk at his window every night—or worse, lurk in his bedroom. Nobody needed that. Even if it was Scott, it would not be okay. It really wouldn’t be okay with Stiles, let alone his dad. He was a teenager after all. And he needed his own time to do the things that normal hormonal teenagers do when given the chance to be alone.

Well, shit. He was doing that over thinking thing again, wasn’t he? Why couldn’t he ever stop thinking? He needed to stop thinking. Or start thinking more clearly. And not about the terrifyingly realistic, anxiety-induced daydreams—nightmares. Daymares? Was that a word?

Maybe this was all just a dream, too. He’s had panic attacks in his dreams. What was that thing he needed to see in order to know if this was a reality or not? Why couldn’t he just remember?

Not so suddenly, Stiles' vertigo shifted from only spinning the ceiling to feeling like he's on a high speed spin cycle from his washing machine. He felt like he was going to upchuck everything he's had to eat for the past 5 years. It wasn't a new feeling anymore but Stiles still hated it with a burning passion.

He heard the slow exhale of the person in front of him, and felt it on the tip of his nose. He'd probably quirk a smile or something if he wasn't going through the motions of a panic attack over and over again. "Okay," the person huffed under his breath.

The smooth strength of lips met his with little to no hesitation. The scratch of stubble Stiles felt when he feverishly returned the pressure made him dizzy—in a good way this time. Before he knew it, his bottom lip was in between teeth, shortly followed by the swipe of a tongue. And just like that it was gone, the pressure, the rub of stubble, the air in his lungs, and some of the panic that was rising in his chest.

He would never admit to it but Stiles tried to chase the kiss by leaning forward more. It resulted in his face meeting with a shoulder or some other rigid, tough body part. At least the warmth of the hug was back. By now, Stiles understood that at least 3 of his pack members were alive: Scott, Derek, and Lydia.

He could still feel the adrenaline running through his veins, igniting his body to finally start working. He could breathe, and it felt closed off but it was a step closer to putting this behind him. His face felt tacky due to the tear streaks drying. He couldn't be one hundred percent sure, though he was almost positive that he was crying.

The hiccups made more sense when he realized he was in fact crying. Well, crying joined with the fact that his breathing was messed up for the past however long it took for Derek to find him. He knew it was Derek thanks to the sturdiness of him. The stubble might have been a dead giveaway with the voice even higher up on the list, but Stiles gave himself a break because his brain wasn't working then. It barely is now.

When he was capable of breathing normally (which took about ten minutes with coaxing from every person in the room), he said his thanks and went to stand. After all, he wasn't going to stay in Derek's hold forever, even if it was one of the most comfortable places Stiles has ever been privileged to be in.

His legs were wobbly at best. He stumbled a few steps before catching himself on Derek once again. Well, really, Derek grabbed for Stiles' elbow and steadied him with a worried expression.

Oh how he hated being like this, after everything has calmed down enough. It was always the same thing. He'd stay in bed for a few hours, or on the floor or where ever he happened to be at the time, until he finally felt ready after panic attacks like these. It's been a while.

But he needed to prove that he wasn't completely useless after them. So, he grumbled a quick, "I've got it, I'm fine," to Derek and walked clumsily the rest of the way to the couch, with the big bad wolf trailing behind him cautiously. "I'm fine, okay? You don't have to trail behind me like that."

With that accusation out of the way, he continued to sniffle and paw at his face to stop the flow of tears from getting anywhere.

It took another hour for him to stop crying, and that was after someone—Derek—convinced everyone to leave him be for a while. It wasn't exactly a steady stream, either. Stiles would stop for a few minutes, look at Scott or whoever happened to be hovering in the doorway, and break down again.

The entire time, Derek was right at his side, rubbing his arms or pulling Stiles into his chest. Hearing someone's heartbeat aside from his own helped more than it should. His pack was alive and that was more than he could ever ask for.

Who knew Derek Hale was the one to never leave a person alone when they're upset? Surely not Stiles.

Stiles didn't know when he fell asleep. It might have been sometime after the last breakdown, but he couldn't be sure. When he awoke, he was still in the loft, but in a different place from where he remembered falling asleep. At the foot of the bed, well mattress really, Derek was sitting in a hunched position, elbow resting on his knee and his chin resting in the palm of his hand. His other hand was running repetitively through his hair, making it stick up everywhere. Stiles took notice of his knee bouncing up and down, too.

He decided to rest up on his elbows and extend a bent leg to get Derek's attention with his foot. When Derek turned with a questioning eyebrow, Stiles tried to smile, "I don't remember getting into your bed." It was meant to be a joke, but it also reigned true. Derek shrugged him response, so Stiles nodded.

"Thanks."

This time, Derek nodded.

The bright sunlight coming through the window was what made Stiles realize how huge of a headache he had. Crying always did that to him for whatever reason. It never was a pleasant experience. But he couldn't really do anything about it. The grimace on his face must've given him away because Derek immediately jumped into asking what was wrong, grabbing for the closest part of Stiles to do something. His hand ended up wrapped around his ankle, and Stiles saw the black running up the inside of Derek's arm. His headache faded.  
He thanked Derek again.

Silently, he dropped back down until his head hit the pillow underneath him. His eye were shut before he knew it, yet he didn't fall asleep. He laid there, expecting sleep to come over him eventually. It never did. So, he returned to looking at Derek's back thoughtfully. It felt weird to be in Derek's bed. Though it felt even weirder being in it without Derek.

"Derek—" Stiles started, but stopped when he heard Derek say his name at the same time. Startled, they both looked at each other with a quizzical expression. "Listen, what you did back there..." Stiles paused, not knowing how to continue. Instead, he let out a puff of air that vaguely resembled a laugh. He decided not to drag on the 'I-owe-you-my-life-speech'. Instead, he shook his head and attempted a smile that was meant to express his gratitude.

Derek stared at him for a minute, eyes flickering all over his face like he was trying to figure something out or like Stiles was a puzzle he needed to solve. His mouth stayed slightly ajar for half of that time, in a way that said he needed to say something but didn't have the guts. Then, like a switch flipped, all the evidence from that look vanished and was replaced with the solemn, neutral expression his face normally wore. "Sorry. It was the only thing I could think of and," Derek paused, mouth hanging open again slightly, "Stay as long as you need to. I know it's hard getting over those, of that extent." His words were calculated carefully, Stiles could tell that for a fact.

The only thing Stiles could think to say in return was a simple, "Yeah." He'd be lying if he said there wasn't disappointment in his reply, but disappointment in what he didn't know.

This time, Derek meticulously watched Stiles' expression, lips pressed in a firm line. Shifting his eyes away, he shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. "You don't remember," he tries, cocking his head in question when he eyes opened back up. Stiles assumed his confused look answered the unspoken question tenfold.

Derek sucked his bottom lip into his mouth for a moment and rolled it back out, most likely juggling the words he could use to say what he's been wanting to for the past however many minutes.

"When—I—okay." It was a great start, with all the stuttering and weird expression changes. "Stiles," Derek sighed, "When we were on our way back, you were shouting. It was mostly nonsense considering we were pretty far away, but a lot of the words were clear. You said Scott a lot at first, then Allison, Lydia, me... When we got to you, you were shaking and crying and screaming. Nobody could get near you because you would just scream. I didn't know what to do. Scott tried everything. Lydia tried."

Another pause. "You stopped eventually. Screaming. But then, all you kept saying was, 'He can't be dead. He can't. Derek's dead. He can't be dead.' and I didn't know what to do. I didn't know. And you were sounded so broken and I couldn't take your pain away. And you wouldn't listen—I was so scared—I didn't know what the hell I was doing. I'm really glad that you're okay. And that you know that I'm okay."

So Stiles kissed him, mumbling his apologies and how he didn't know's and he's there now's between short breaks like Derek did for him. He thinks he's read the situation wrong until wraps strong arms around Stiles so tightly that he doesn't think he'll ever be let go. He doesn't know if it's a bad or good thing, yet. He absently thinks how he'll deal with it some other time, because he has Derek Hale bruising his lips and they're in bed.

Somehow, trying to figure things out isn't all that important at that time.

**Author's Note:**

> i kind of suck at ending stories, but this is my first teen wolf that i've actually posted and my first work on this site, so if you want to leave suggestions or comments or anything, please do and thank you for reading


End file.
